Eating Them

Sometimes there is armor on the plate
The animal’s armor is there with it
It is nature’s wit
The colors emblazon on a shell
You go crazy with desire
Which protected the creature
Sometimes there are eyes looking up at you
Hunger is what you stare at
From defeat the aqueous eyes stare
Sometimes
You peel the skin back and then decide to eat it
You don’t see hairs in the skin which would be thorns
The skin is deliciously burnt
By desire and calculation
You lick your fingers
Thorns in the sensibility
Of a creature inside you assaying
The lightness of the things you do
The shame of devouring
What ticks off youth’s clock
But flavor is flavor
Flavor is the port of desire
Hunger lies on the plate of the mind
And it is a dead thing
Until it awakes like a snake on the plate
And it sidles between the flowers
That cover the dining table
Who are also dead
And many of the people dining with you
In fact,  those on either side of you at the table
Are also conveniently dead
They bob as if on vessels and they are
Feeding you and feeding on you
Yet you won’t scream
Because you are so hungry
And this is the right place to sit
So much nourishment is speaking here

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Jogging Through a Cemetery

Do you recognize the turn of the  morning
I don’t
It’s like the translucent grey handle
At the top of the poem
I just now noticed

I can see through it
Push down on it to write
An image of the window’s sky
Will appear to be sponsored
As this moment

Appears to be sponsored

As you appear to be ashes

By your name

That strange tethered animal

“Meaner than a junkyard dog”

 

 

Telehuman

The dissolution you are seeking      such milk
When the wind is here         its hands everywhere
The cobra has a hood
The owl is a night bellman
The moon sifts a dust onto dragon-tiled roofs
Up and down this street       the televisions blow
The wind is ridiculously strong
It might as well be Mongolia
You cannot walk out the front door
Without waking up       You’ve been here before
Your name is the thing you forget
When you are alive       The dead
Are the ones who say their names
over and over      like a memory problem

End of Summer Surprise

I opened that poetry book I recall I had been reading one distant summer day, one now foreign year, by the lake. And a tiny mummy of a ladybug fell out like punctuation, a casualty of outdoor reading, carapace in a carapace.

Dear Little Polka Dots, I’m sorry. I never saw you fly in. I never knew I buried you alive in stanzas. Your little skeleton’s the bookmark of your fate.

Cute as a button,
dead as late.